He sat back and started to answer, but was distracted by his phone going off. He picked up his phone, looked at it, and began to look even more tired. His brow furrowed with irritation.

“Apparently, I can’t do anything right today,” he spat bitterly. I glanced at his phone, seeing that it was a text message from his wife. I swallowed, unsure what to say. Mr. Smith had been tense and on-edge for weeks, and I had a sneaking suspicion that not all was right at home. After all, Mr. Smith was exhibiting classic signs of sexual frustration. I shook my head, trying to clear thoughts like that away. I shouldn’t be thinking anything about my married boss’s sexual frustration.

“Are you feeling alright?” Mr. Smith asked. I jerked, startled that he had been watching me, and embarrassed that my inner-turmoil had made such an outer-appearance.

“Of course,” I said quickly, “I just wish there was something I could do to help you.”

He laughed and shook his head, “It isn’t work-related, there’s nothing you can do to help. But thanks.” He began to shuffle the day’s mail on his desk, and one of the junk magazines found its way to the top, and on the cover was an advertisement for the television show Mad Men.

Without thinking, I said, “You know, if this were an episode of Mad Men, you would have a decanter of scotch in the corner. And this would be the moment I poured you a drink, sat in your lap, and said, ‘Are you sure I can’t help?’”

There was a moment of complete and mortifying silence. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I began to blush. I looked down and my shoes and forced a laugh, saying, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made a joke like that.” I glanced up from under my eyelashes to see Mr. Smith watching me closely.

“I’ve never seen Mad Men,” he said, “but I hear it’s good. You like it, I take?”

“Actually, I’ve never seen it, either. Just commercials,” I said quietly.

Mr. Smith chuckled a little and said, “You haven’t seen the show, but seeing an ad for it makes you think about sitting in my lap?” I could feel myself blushing worse than ever. He was right, of course – surely the desire must be there, if something as simple as a magazine cover featuring a show I’ve never seen brought such a fantasy to mind.

I’ve had affairs with married men before. It was enjoyable – fun, sex, and for the most part, no attachments. But even though Mr. Smith was an impression specimen of a man, I’d pushed any thoughts of seducing him out of mind to prevent any complications at work. And yet, here I was making off-hand remarks about sitting in his lap. Smooth. Very smooth, I thought. Mr. Smith was so formal, almost formidable. I would have thought that such a remark would have made him uncomfortable, perhaps even angry. And yet . . . he was smiling.

I took a deep, steadying breath. “It would seem so,” I said softly, allowing my lips to curve into a mischievous grin. He stood up, and I involuntarily tensed. He smiled at that, as though he liked that he made me nervous. He walked past me and began pulling a few books off of a book shelf, eventually pulling out an inconspicuous wooden box.

As he passed me going back to his desk, he casually brushed his hand down my back, the way you would alert someone busy conversing with a another person that you needed to squeeze by, but he let his hand linger for a moment longer than necessary, sending a shiver down my spine.

He sat the box on his desk, opened it, and removed a bottle of whiskey and a single glass.

“People aren’t as understanding these days about keeping liquor at the office as they were in the fifties,” he remarked, “so I hope you don’t mind my lack of a fancy decanter.” He sat the glass and bottle on the edge of his desk, then walked back to his chair and sat down, looking at me expectantly.

I stood stock-still, completely unsure about what to do. It was late in the day, and the office was completely empty except for the two of us, so there was virtually no risk of someone walking in to find us drinking, or the gods know what else. But still, I knew that logically, this was a terrible idea. What if Mr. Smith decides he can’t have me around the office anymore after I gave in? The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that this was going to go horribly wrong.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “I thought you’d like to join me for a drink.” He rolled his chair away from the desk and indicated his lap, “And I thought you might want to take a seat.”

“That,” I said, “would be a very bad idea.”

“But you want to,” he pressed.

“It doesn’t matter if I want to,” I said, turning to leave. But before I made it to the door, I felt Mr. Smith’s hand grip my upper-arm.

“Wait,” he said, turning me around, “that is really quite unfair of you. Making a suggestion like that . . . telling me a fantasy, and then leaving?” He spoke in a quiet, cool, and measured voice, all the while still gripping my upper-arm.

I tried to turn away, but his grip was like iron. Not for the first time, I noticed his large arms beneath his neat button-up shirt and wondered how big his muscles were. Gods, he’s strong, I thought, blushing yet again as I realized how incredibly wet he was making me. I twisted feebly, enjoying that I couldn’t get away.

“It’s really not nice to lead a man on like that,” he said, “especially when that man is your boss.” He gripped my arm tighter. “Especially when you must know how much I want you.”

“I d-didn’t know,” I stammered.

“Bullshit,” he spat, giving me a violent shake. “You aren’t blind. Well, you may be blind to me, but not to yourself.” He let go of my arm and placed his hands on either side of my waist, letting his hands explore as he turned my body. His face softened. “Just look at you,” he whispered, stopping my circular progress and cupping my chin in his hand.

My breath was coming in short gasps, and I began to shake. He laughed, pulling me back toward the desk.

“Now, how about that drink?” he asked, sitting himself down again. I picked up the bottle and tipped it toward the cup, my shaking hand making the glass tinker madly, splattering whiskey across the desk. I closed my eyes, trying to will my hands to be steady, but there was nothing for it.

“Oh, dear,” he said, taking the glass and bottle from my hands. “Now, what kind of secretary cannot pour her boss a drink?” He poured himself a healthy measure, then downed it in one gulp. He pulled me into is lap, one arm locked around my waist, the other hand firmly on my neck. “Maybe I should punish you.” A sigh of pleasure escaped my lips, and Mr. Smith tightened his hold on my neck, making my head spin. “You love this, don’t you?” he whispered. I nodded. “No, no, no – say, ‘Yes, sir’,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” I gasped.

He poured another glass, and downed the second just as quickly as the first.

“Bend over the desk,” he said huskily. “You need to be punished.”

Obediently, I stood and bent toward the desk, placing my hands flat on top. Mr. Smith stood up, studied my bent form for a moment, then suddenly pushed my shoulders down to where my face was pressed against the desk, my ass high in the air. I felt him grab my wrists and pin them above my head with one hand. With the other, he slowly began to push my skirt up my thighs. I heard Mr. Smith sigh with pleasure, and I knew he had just seen my tight ass and barely-there lace panties.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, for spilling your drink,” I whimpered, my words muffled by how hard my face was pressed against the desk.

Smack.

“Tell me again,” he said.

I repeated it.

Smack.

I moaned.

I felt Mr. Smith’s fingers caressing outside of my panties.

“So wet. . . “ he said. “But that’s not important right now. Do you know what is important?”

Smack.

He unpinned my wrists and guided one of my hands to his very stiff cock. “This is what’s important right now. Do you know why?” he asked. I did, of course, but I shook my head, knowing he wanted to tell me.

Smack.

“Because I’m the boss. And you’re a good secretary who wants to help her boss, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I moaned.

“Good girl,” he said, adding a final spanking. Smack.

He pulled me up roughly from the desk, unzipping his pants as I steadied myself.

“On your knees,” he commanded.

“Yes, sir,” I said, obediently lowering myself to the floor, taking in the sight offered by his open trousers, seeing what I’d wondered about a hundred times. He was rock hard, nicely sized and shaped. I could feel my mouth water.

He reached down and grabbed a fistful of my hair.

“Now,” he said, “be a good girl, and show me what you can do.”

I leaned forward and reached for his cock, bringing it to my lips, wrapping my mouth around it. Mr. Smith kept a firm grip on my hair, thrust with his hips, and shoved is cock deep into my throat, making me cough and gag. He pulled back for a moment, letting me catch my breath. Before he could thrust again, I began to work my hands up and down his cock along with my mouth, swirling my tongue around the head and shaft of his cock as I moved up and down. He moaned and leaned back, letting go of my hair.

“Fuck, yes,” he said, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall.

While I kept one hand on his cock, I lowered the other hand down to my soaking wet pussy. I began to rub my already-aroused clit, and I moaned a deep hum around Mr. Smith’s throbbing member as pleasure coursed through me. I was so incredibly hot and bothered that I could feel a climax already inching closer.

Suddenly, Mr. Smith gripped my hair again, forcing my head still.

“Oh god, I’m about to cum!” he cried, “I want you to swallow it all like a good little whore.”

At his words, a rush of heat flooded my body as I climaxed. At the exact same time, Mr. Smith came and exploded in my mouth. I obediently swallowed.

“Good girl,” he gasped, collapsing into his desk chair.

I stood up, straightened my skirt, and turned back to Mr. Smith.

“Will that be all today, sir?” I asked, as though we had merely been discussing work to be done.

“Yes, I believe that will be all,” he said, the merest trace of a smirk on his lips.

I smiled. “Well then, I will see you in the morning, Mr. Smith,” I said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he replied.

And I could only imagine what tomorrow might bring, I thought as I walked out the door.